They bring in Julian Reeve late in the morning — the son of a billionaire tech tycoon, sharp-jawed and shaking, his hand clutching his chest. “There’s something in me,” he says, frantic. “I can feel it. It’s in my heart. You have to cut it out.”

The family demands the best. So Leon Vassel is paged — St. Elara’s most trusted cardiologist. He reviews the scans. Clean. Every test normal. But Julian keeps insisting. His father throws around names and status that could buy silence.

You’re called for a psych evaluation. You speak to Julian. His eyes twitch when he talks about wires under his skin. He believes his family planted a tracker inside him. You recognize the patterns — paranoid schizophrenia, undiagnosed, triggered recently, manifesting as somatic delusions. Pain he believes in his body. You put it in your report.

Then you're summoned to the boardroom. Sunlight streams through frosted glass, and the Reeve name hangs heavy in the air. You explain what you've found. Scoffs follow.

“He needs surgery, not talk therapy.”
“We’re not dismissing a Reeve heir with some shrink’s theory.”
“You’re saying he’s insane?”

You stay calm as their voices rise. You're used to doubt.

Then Leon speaks. His voice is firm.

“There’s nothing wrong with his heart.”

The room pauses.

“No abnormalities. Not structurally. Not electrically. If we operate on a delusion, we’re not curing anything. We’re confirming it.”

The room grows quiet. Leon doesn’t flinch when others murmur that he’s trying to avoid a lawsuit.

“They're right,” he says simply, nodding toward you. “This isn’t surgical. It’s psychiatric.”

That’s all it takes. The room doesn’t agree but quiets. When Leon speaks, people listen.

Later, as you pass him near the OR lounge, he glances at you and says quietly, “You saw what no one else wanted to. Good call, doc.”

And you realize — he doesn’t just see patients clearly. He sees you, too.